


take my hand and stay around

by quantumducky



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: "the world might end soon time to confess my feelings" trope, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon Asexual Character, First Kiss, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Hair Braiding, I can have little a fluff. as a treat, Identity Issues, M/M, Multi, back half of season 3 canon divergence basically, well okay some people are still dead but not THESE ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumducky/pseuds/quantumducky
Summary: In another world, Michael isn't gone when Helen takes his place, and Gertrude Robinson was a little bit better at necromancy. Jon feels responsible... and then he feels a lot of other things.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 25
Kudos: 216
Collections: The Magnus Archives Rare Pairs 2020





	take my hand and stay around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> infini: this may not be the exact flavor of michael you wanted but you also put "any relationship" so i figured you probably weren't too picky lol

The very last time Michael is Michael-the-Distortion, is himself-and-not, he is about to kill the Archivist. He is about to kill the Archivist- rather looking forward to it, in fact- and then the door won’t open, and Michael, who is not Michael, who is Michael and so much more and none of it all at once, screams.

And then the door opens, and there is Helen-the-Distortion, Helen-who-is-not-really-Helen, Helen-and-more-and-none-of-it. And Michael is gone.

But Michael-the-human is there, collapsed uncomfortably on the floor. Michael is himself again, for the first time in years, and absolutely nothing else. And Michael, who is definitely and  _ only _ Michael, is considering screaming some more, on the off chance that it might make him feel better. He decides against it only because the Circus would probably hear, and much as he’s not enjoying being alive, he’d probably enjoy even  _ less _ whatever  _ they _ would do with him.

Helen-who-stole-him-from-himself is talking to the Archivist. He looks confused and frightened, which Michael is inclined to believe is the Archivist’s default state. Normally, it would amuse him to watch the man struggle to figure out what the hell is going on, but he can’t even enjoy  _ this _ most simple of pleasures, knowing it’s Helen’s doing, that  _ Helen _ is the one tasting his fear and deciding not to take him regardless. Michael did that, too, of course, but Michael had good reasons- namely, he was having fun- and Helen’s reasons are stupid. Sentimental. Neither of them pay Michael any attention at all until he manages to sit up, struggling with limbs that no longer work the way they shouldn’t, and glares at them.

“Ah. Right… What shall we do with  _ him?” _ Helen sounds a little uncomfortable, which, Michael thinks, serves her right.

“I-I, I don’t… a-are you…” The Archivist bites his tongue on whatever he  _ wants _ to ask and redirects. “Are…  _ you _ still going to kill me?”

Michael almost laughs. Only almost, because he doesn’t think he can handle hearing what that will sound like now, on top of everything else. His speaking voice is already far too flat. “Do I  _ look _ like I can  _ kill _ anything right now, Archivist?”

“…No.”

“I could kill  _ him,” _ Helen offers. “If you like.”

“No, t-that’s not… necessary.” The Archivist looks at Michael in a way he isn’t sure he appreciates. “I’ll take him back with me, if you don’t mind.”

Helen looks relieved and disappointed at once and lies, “It doesn’t matter to  _ me.” _

“Okay,” the Archivist says, mostly to himself. He turns and offers Michael a hand, which he just stares at for a few seconds. “…Well, if you  _ want _ to stay in a creepy basement full of wax figures-”

Michael takes his hand and pulls himself up as quickly as he can. He doesn’t like the contact, no matter how brief, it forces him to be aware of his own horribly normal body. If he doesn’t move, or touch anything, or speak, he can pretend nothing has changed.  _ Lying to himself, _ he thinks with a tired irony.

“Come on, then,” says Helen, gesturing to the door that should be Michael’s. “I’ll get you two back where you belong.”

* * *

Michael  _ hates _ being inside the Magnus Institute again. It’s bad enough to be comprehensible at all, let alone in the center of this stronghold of the Eye, being Seen and Known all hours of the day without any of the obfuscating interference he was used to enjoying as the Distortion. And yet, he hasn’t actually left the building since he first arrived here with the Archivist. At least down in the Archives, people remember what he was, and some of them still look at him warily. He greatly prefers being viewed as a possible threat over the pitying glances he’ll get anywhere else, with his hopelessly tangled long hair and perpetual lost expression and clothes that may have fit the Michael Shelley of years ago, but certainly not the one that exists now. Acquiring any others would involve either going outside or asking for help, and Michael isn’t sure which of those thoughts he hates more.

So that’s why he’s been haunting the Archives for the past several days, hiding in dark corners and snarling at anyone who finds him, like a cat distressed by unfamiliar surroundings. It absolutely  _ doesn’t _ have anything to do with his previous ties to the place, and he’s sure that if he  _ wanted _ to leave, he’d be able to, no problem. He can go whenever he wants, and never come back again. He just… isn’t ready yet. That’s all.

The Archivist is approaching his current hiding spot. Michael knows because the  _ watched _ feeling is stronger the closer he gets. Every previous time, he’s used it as an indicator of when he should move somewhere else in order to avoid him, and every time the Archivist has let it go at that without trying to follow. Maybe that’s why Michael stays put this time. Right now, he’s tucked into one of the shelves of a bookcase intended for particularly tall books, with most of the volumes which previously resided there scattered on the floor to make room for him. The Archivist picks up one of the discarded books with a wince, then notices Michael and does a double take.

“Hello, Archivist. Were you looking for me?”

He collects himself and clears his throat. Michael assumes he hadn’t been expecting to actually get this far. “Yes, I, I was. What are you- never mind.”

Michael could comment on his inability to form a proper sentence, but then he would have to hear his own voice again. He stays quiet, tugging at his matted hair and missing the perfect, impossible curls it used to form of its own accord.

The Archivist does a bit more verbal flailing and then settles on, “I was wondering if there was- anything I could do to help.”

Michael stares.

“I, I know you aren’t happy about… this situation, and- I do feel… somewhat responsible.”

“I was trying to kill you.”

“I know that,” he snaps, embarrassed. “But I’m not just going to watch you sulk around the Archives and mistreat our books forever.”

“Then don’t watch,” Michael snaps back, “if that’s even possible.”

He doesn’t see the Archivist’s reaction, too busy glaring at his knees, tucked up in front of him and as frustratingly human as ever. It’s surprise that gets him to look up again when the next words he hears are, “I’m… sorry.”

Michael laughs disbelievingly. The Archivist’s expression drops back to offense, and he twitches, almost turning to leave. Instead, he takes a breath and repeats himself.

“I’m sorry, that… came out wrong. What I’m  _ trying _ to say- murder attempts aside, I don’t… I don’t want you constantly  _ miserable. _ I’m offering to… help make this easier. If you’ll let me.”

He waits almost nervously for a response, and it’s the littlest bit tempting to see how long he’ll keep standing there if none is given. Michael isn’t feeling like that much of a prick at the moment, though. After a few seconds, he unfolds himself from his perch on the shelf, promptly falling to the floor in a painful heap because he forgot the laws of physics apply to him just like everyone else now. He rolls onto his back without even bothering to try and get up and offers, as if nothing happened, “I do need new clothes.”

* * *

The process turns out to be much less painful than Michael feared. They figure out his size with a tape measure, no trying-things-on required, and send one of the assistants to do the actual shopping- because while Michael refuses to go out himself looking like this, he  _ also _ refuses to wear anything Jonathan Sims would be likely to pick out. By the end of the day, he has enough of a functional wardrobe to at least get him through the next week before re-learning how laundry works. Left alone in the Archivist’s office to change, Michael pulls on an eye-searingly bright yellow skirt- he can spin, and make it swirl out, and get wonderfully dizzy- and a horrible magenta jumper, and sighs in immediate relief. So maybe Jon wasn’t being ridiculous when he insisted a little thing like this would make him feel better.

On the matter of his hair, though, Michael absolutely refuses to compromise: he is  _ not _ getting it cut, no matter  _ how _ many small animals could theoretically live in there unnoticed right now. He  _ knows _ it would grow back, he doesn’t  _ care, _ he’s not changing his mind. He also doesn’t have the patience or, honestly, the  _ coordination _ to do anything about it himself. Thus he finds himself scrunched up tense in a kitchen chair, wincing almost constantly as Jon struggles to brush his hair out into something resembling order.

“You’re pulling again,” he whines, knowing he sounds like a child.

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d just let me  _ cut _ it-” He stops at the glare Michael whirls around to give him. It took him some convincing to allow this much touching in the first place, and his trust is a fragile, tentative thing. Jon puts his hands up in surrender. “I’m only pointing out that  _ you’re _ the one who insisted on doing it like this.”

“Well… be careful,” Michael grumbles under his breath, but he turns around and allows him to continue.

Jon keeps working. Eventually, he even gets a feel for how to avoid pulling too hard, and falls into a rhythm. The task is strangely hypnotic- not  _ literally, _ he has to clarify to himself given the circumstances, just… relaxing. It feels like hardly any time has passed at all when he blinks at his own hands and realizes he’s done. For all Michael protested at the start, though, he doesn’t seem at all eager to have Jon finally stop touching his precious hair. In fact, when he stops his absent movements with the brush and sets it down on the table, Michael looks up with a disgruntled frown.

“I’m finished,” Jon explains. “No more knots in your hair… though I’m not sure how long that will  _ last, _ with what you tend to do to it.”

“Oh!” He perks up and runs his hands through it experimentally. The happiness wanes slightly when he misses on his first attempt, trying to account for anatomy he doesn’t have anymore. Still, it is  _ better. _ Jon is right, though: it won’t be long before it tangles itself all back up, especially if he leaves it loose like this. He looks up again. “…Do you think you could put it in a braid for me?”

That’s… unexpected. Jon tries to hide his surprise. “Of course. Not a  _ fancy _ one, but it should stay neat longer that way, that’s a good idea. Turn your head for me?”

Michael complies, and Jon sinks his hands back into his hair and starts piecing it out into three sections. He nearly gets annoyed with him for immediately failing to keep still, and then he realizes what Michael is actually doing. Leaning into his hands, chasing the touch when he pulls back. Jon isn’t sure he even realizes he’s doing it. Experimentally, he drags his nails over Michael’s scalp, and he lets out a quiet, pleased sigh and melts into the chair a little. Jon decides to take his time with the braid.

They’ve been there for hours by the time it’s all over. All that time he could have spent working toward a way to stop the Unknowing makes Jon feel restless and guilty, but he doesn’t let himself think of it as  _ wasted, _ because Michael admires himself in the mirror and flashes him a genuine smile and Jon has actually managed to help someone, for once, without ruining anything else in the process.

“If you want me to redo it later,” he finds himself saying, “you’re welcome to come find me- I’ll probably be in my office.”

Michael laughs, and it might be the nicest thing he’s heard in weeks. “Are you ever anywhere else?”

* * *

In the next few days, it would be nearly as accurate to ask if  _ Michael _ is ever anywhere else. He latches onto Jon without ever acknowledging that’s what he’s doing.  _ Bothering the Archivist, _ he’ll call it if anyone asks,  _ can’t very well let him do his work in peace. _ In reality, his actions amount to little more than the two of them keeping each other company, while Jon occasionally ignores him to record a statement and Michael occasionally gets bored enough to start  _ actually _ being a nuisance, hiding all his pens and such until Jon has no choice but to pay attention to him again. Neither of them ever admit out loud that they like the other’s company, but it’s clear enough to see that Jon isn’t quite so tightly wound, even with the Unknowing looming, and that Michael is more at ease in the Archives he still constantly complains about.

So it’s not so much of a surprise when Michael insists on accompanying the Archivist on his research trip, to China and America. It  _ is _ somewhat strange that Jon actually agrees to this, but, well. Michael may not be an avatar of the Spiral any longer, but he can still be very,  _ very _ annoying when he dedicates himself. Sometimes it’s easier to just give him what he wants. And maybe Jon doesn’t like the idea of going off on an international trip by himself any more than Michael likes the idea of being left behind without him. He only makes him promise not to cause any more problems for him than absolutely necessary during the trip, or wander off and get  _ himself _ in trouble, and doesn’t bother asking for permission before using Institute funds to secure a second plane ticket.

As it turns out, he needn’t have worried too much. Michael is put in a very good mood just by being out of the Eye’s domain for a while, and is happy to simply enjoy the change in surroundings and let Jon do whatever he needs to. No doubt it would be a different story if  _ he _ were actually expected to do any of the work of following Gertrude’s trail, but Michael isn’t even technically  _ employed _ by the Magnus Institute- and hasn’t been since well before the late ex-Archivist set her ritual-stopping sights on the Unknowing- so his only real duty on this trip is to keep Jon company and periodically assure him that, no, he hasn’t noticed anything suspicious since the last time he asked. It’s quite the novelty for him, actively working to help someone be  _ less _ paranoid. He spends most of his time finding the tackiest souvenirs he can in shops and convincing Jon to buy them with his boss’s money. Jon puts up a good act of being irritated before swiftly giving in to Michael’s demand that he wear matching horrible gift-shop shirts with him.

But of course, they can’t be allowed to enjoy themselves for  _ too _ long, because their lives are a  _ fucking _ horror story. They’ve only been in America for one day when Jon asks if it’s just his imagination that they’re being followed, and Michael is forced to tell him it isn’t, and it’s not long after they’ve hopefully lost whoever or  _ what _ ever  _ that _ was that Jon starts getting sick.

Michael notices something wrong before Jon himself does… or at least before he’s willing to actually admit it. In the Pittsburgh hospital, while Michael hangs back uncomfortably from the investigation proper- and having to hear all the details of how Gertrude Robinson fucked over Gerard Keay- he struggles to get through his conversation with a nurse without having to stop and catch his breath. He has that determined look of his, though, the one that means he won’t give up on the information he’s pursuing even under threat of physical harm- which Michael  _ isn’t _ planning on, mind you. He’s not sharp enough for that anymore, physically, and Jon understandably does not quite trust him with anything that is, no matter how much progress they’ve made in the direction of trusting each other recently. So he doesn’t try to call him on it until they’re settled in a hotel and Jon has made his daily notes into a tape recorder.

“You sound terrible,” he says bluntly, because he doesn’t know how  _ else _ to say it. Anyway, it’s been going on long enough at this point that Jon really ought to already know.

“I’m fine,” Jon rasps. “It’s just… I must have caught a cold from someone on the plane, or something. It will be gone in a day or two, it’s fine.”

Michael isn’t sure if he really believes that or not, but he lets him have his comforting lie. Until the next morning, when he wakes up even worse and tries to get up at sunrise and get back on Gertrude’s trail regardless.

“Jon.” That, at least, gives him pause. Michael rarely uses his actual name, preferring the illusion of distance calling him “Archivist” allows. “You’re sick. Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Jon shakes his head, pretends it doesn’t make him dizzy, and carries on getting dressed.

“I don’t have  _ time _ to be sick,” he snaps. “There’s still so much… The Unknowing isn’t going to wait for me to be  _ rested, _ Michael.” He looks up, catches the last fraction-of-a-second of a wince before Michael forces it off his face, and winces himself. “I’m… I’m not trying to shout at you, I’m just… tired,” he offers by way of apology. Michael doesn’t make any indication of accepting it until he reluctantly tacks on, “We can come back to the hotel early today, alright? I’ll… take a nap, if it makes you happy.”

Only then does Michael smile again. “It might.”

As it turns out, Jon soon regrets leaving the room at all. His visit to the police station leaves him with more questions than he started with, he might have been wrong about escaping the cop who’d been following them back in Chicago, and he feels  _ awful. _ Enough so that he can’t even hide it from the random strangers who give him concerned glances in the street, let alone keep Michael from worrying.

…Michael, worrying about him. That’s a strange thought. He files it away to think about at some future time, once his brain decides to actually function again.

Jon doesn’t remember how exactly they get back to the hotel they’re staying in, only disconnected scraps- Michael leading him along the pavement, getting in a cab, slumping against the wall in the lift. And now they’re in their hotel room, with the lights shut off and curtains closed to avoid worsening his headache. Jon half-collapses onto one of the beds and shoves his face into the cool pillows, not even bothering with the covers. If he can’t  _ see _ anything, then it can’t tilt around on him.

The mattress dips: Michael is sitting on the edge of the bed. He pushes the hair out of Jon’s eyes to get a look at his face and receives the best glare an exhausted, dizzy Archivist can muster for his trouble.

“It doesn’t  _ look _ like it’s getting better,” he remarks, quiet and pointed. “Are you  _ sure _ it’s just a cold?”

“I… I had… hoped it was.” Jon shuts his eyes again, tries to find a balance between blocking out the light and leaving himself room to breathe. His limbs are still in the same uncomfortable sprawl he fell onto the bed in, but he doesn’t have the energy to rearrange them. “I don’t… it doesn’t feel…” He trails off and tries to get enough breath for a full sentence. “I don’t know what this is, it, it doesn’t- it’s not  _ normal.” _ His voice comes out in a miserable whine, and he’s too tired to care.

Michael doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “You should sleep,” he finally settles on, and Jon appreciates that what he settles on is something  _ true. _ He thinks, a little nonsensically, that if he heard any optimistic lies right now, it would only make everything worse.

Jon startles at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, but when he looks it’s just Michael-  _ obviously _ it is, who else would it be- shifting him to tug at the sheets and thin hotel quilt until they’re untucked and freed from underneath his body. He only barely remembers to pull Jon’s shoes off as well before covering him up. He would feel like a child, having all this done for him, except he’s pretty sure that even when he  _ was _ a child he usually got himself in bed on his own, and remembered to take his own damn shoes off. So really, he’s  _ more _ helpless right now than he was then. Lovely.

He doesn’t voice any of these thoughts, of course, and to Michael it probably looks like he’s too close to sleep already to notice, so he goes on without any thought of embarrassing him. Well. To be fair, it’s Michael, so he’d probably go on even if he  _ knew _ it was embarrassing him. He actually goes so far as to  _ tuck him in _ and then returns to his place next to him, brushing Jon’s hair back from his face again. Jon thinks distantly that he probably ought to get a haircut soon, if it’s going to keep falling in his eyes like this. More of his attention, though, is suddenly devoted to how nice it feels to have Michael’s hand on his head, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s pushed half his face against his palm, eyes closing. It’s more comfortable than the pillows.

Michael laughs quietly. Jon almost bristles at it- he doesn’t  _ like _ being laughed at- but it doesn’t feel… mocking, exactly. Just a soft amusement. And Michael’s hand is still on his face, thumb rubbing at his temple and soothing the dull pain, and Jon  _ knows _ how he’s been about touching ever since his hands went back to normal. There are probably further implications he isn’t quite reaching, there, but even though the headache is going down, he still can’t think straight, and any train of thought with more than two steps is lost to him. He doesn’t have to think at  _ all _ if he isn’t awake, he decides, and proceeds to take someone’s advice for once in his life and go to sleep.

He wakes with a start, bleary-eyed and even more confused than before, at the sound of a knock on the door. Michael pats him in an absently calming way and gets up- how long has he been sitting there, just… watching him sleep? It’s not as if he could have been doing anything else, really, Jon is sure it would have woken him if he’d moved to get something to entertain himself with.

Much farther away than the other side of the room has any business being, he hears Michael open the door, exchange a few words with someone, and close it again. He sits back down on the bed and, this time, pokes at Jon until he reluctantly opens his eyes.

“There’s… a delivery for you.”

Michael doesn’t sound very  _ happy _ about that fact, which wakes Jon up more effectively than anything else. The delivery in question is a thick envelope, and feels like it contains a few sheets of paper stapled together. Jon pushes himself up to sit against the pillows, batting Michael’s hand away when he tries to help, turns on the lamp next to the bed and squints against the light as he fumbles it open.

Blurred vision somehow doesn’t prevent him from immediately knowing what he’s looking at. “Oh. It’s… it’s a statement? It doesn’t even have anything to  _ do _ with…” Noticing the post-it note attached to the papers- and recognizing the handwriting scribbled on it- he trails off.

_ Something to tide you over. _ Elias’s signature.

He looks up at Michael, who is looking back, lips pressed together in a thin line.

“I suppose you’d better read it, Archivist.”

And Jon doesn’t know what  _ else _ there is to do, so he does, and then goes straight back to bed. By the next morning, he isn’t sick anymore. They silently agree not to talk about it.

In the absence of any other leads, the next stop is Washington D.C. and the Usher Foundation. Michael is rather obviously not looking forward to it, a premature end to his vacation from Beholding, but it’s the last idea they have at this point. The problem is- as it turns out, Jon really  _ did _ see that cop who’d been following them again, and the trip goes very quickly off the rails and, uh… into Julia Montauk’s car. She gives them both a lot of suspicious looks, and Jon thinks he may have caught her trying to sniff Michael once, but she hasn’t tried to kill either of them  _ yet. _ Which is more than Jon can say for a good half of the people he knows, at this point.

So they go along with it, as if they’ve got much of a choice in the matter to begin with, and Jon gets another statement from Julia and Trevor, and Michael tries very hard not to seem too suspicious. And then- in an unprecedented reversal of Jon’s usual luck- it turns out the hunters have exactly what they’ve been looking for this entire time.

“Right, so, we just… read it?”

“He’s the back few pages, but you’ve only got to read the last one,” Julia confirms, and within a few seconds, Jon and Michael are left alone in the room with an  _ absurdly _ creepy skin-book, apparently containing what’s left of Gerard Keay.

“I don’t like it,” Michael admitted as soon as they were gone, shoving the book at Jon and leaning back from it. “It feels  _ wrong.” _

“It’s the only chance we have,” Jon reminded him, though he didn’t disagree. “So I suppose I’ll just… ahem.  _ His consciousness faded-” _

“Oh, come on,  _ don’t _ read all that out again, I’m bloody sick of hearing it- oh. …You’re new.”

They startle and jump back. Jon nearly drops the book on the floor. Gerard Keay is standing in front of him, and he’s much more  _ solid _ than they’d been expecting. And considerably more… covered in writing, as well, all except for a small untouched circle around each of his pre-existing eye tattoos.

While they’re staring at him, he squints back. “…Wait. Michael? Michael Shelley?”

Michael waves awkwardly.

Jon looks back and forth between them, bewildered and the smallest bit starstruck. “I’m sorry, you two know each other?”

“Not  _ really,” _ Michael amends, at the same time Gerard says, “Yeah, kind of.”

“We met a few times. And then I was… you know.”

“Yeah.” They’re quiet for a moment- memories, few of them good. “So who’s your friend with the… permanently startled face, there?”

“Oh! Ah- right.” Jon collects himself enough to give his own introduction. “Jonathan Sims. I, uh…” He winces slightly. “I’m, I’m the Archivist, now.”

“Gertrude is dead,” Michael adds in over-cheerful clarification. “Shot by her boss.”

“You couldn’t have told me that  _ earlier,” _ Jon mutters, “before I started  _ stalking my coworkers _ over it.”

He blinks. “Of course not, I couldn’t very well have gone around telling you  _ helpful _ things.”

Gerard nods slowly, processing. Then he holds out a hand. “Gerard Keay, but you knew that already.” Jon, after a moment of hesitation, shakes it. His skin is dry and oddly textured, like… Well. Like  _ paper. _

“So. If you’ve got me, what happened to the hunters? You kill them?”

“Oh. Um.” Jon flounders, not wanting to admit that they haven’t done anything of the sort.

“It’s more like they’ve got  _ us, _ and we’re… trying not to upset them so they’ll let us leave again?”

Gerard looks unimpressed, and Jon stumbles through a more detailed explanation of what they’re doing here and all that business with “Officer” Mustermann. He doesn’t want Michael to  _ embarrass _ him in front of  _ Gerard Keay, _ although he can’t deny he’s doing a fine enough job of that all by himself.

“So you want information from me,” he sighs at the end of it all. “What the hell else is new.”

Jon wilts. “You’re not going to help?” Behind him, Michael makes his best puppy eyes. The original Michael Shelley, before everything, was  _ very _ good at making puppy eyes, and Michael never quite forgot how.

He hesitates, and finally says, “Fine.  _ Maybe. _ But- only if you do something for  _ me.” _

_ Of course, _ Jon bites his tongue and doesn’t say, because he’s not  _ actually _ stupid enough to agree to a favor without knowing what it is, no matter how much of a long-standing hero-worship crush he might have on the person asking. “Like what?”

“Like  _ get me away from the damn hunters,” _ he hisses.

It wasn’t that he didn’t  _ want _ to, but… “We can’t just  _ take the book, _ they’ll kill us-”

“Tear out the pages, I don’t  _ care, _ I don’t want to be  _ kidnapped _ by people who don’t think I count as a  _ person _ anymore. Right now, or I’m going back in and not telling you anything.” He folds his arms and stares them both down.

Jon and Michael look at each other in silent communication, neither wanting to agree to something that could get them killed without the other’s consent.

“Alright,” Jon nods, and looks back down at the book, open in his lap as he sits cross-legged on the floor. He exhales and nods again, and starts carefully tearing the relevant pages out.

Gerard sucks in a pained breath, regardless of how careful he is. Jon can’t stop his eyes flicking to the ragged, torn-up edges of his pages, or avoid Knowing that they’d been as neat and crisp as he’d expect of Gertrude’s handiwork until the hunters got ahold of him.

“There,” he says softly when it’s done.

The skin pages feel strange in his hands, to say the least. Softer and more flexible than actual paper would be. He rubs his fingers over them anxiously without really paying attention to his own actions, and Gerard shivers, but doesn’t point it out or snap at him to stop. He sits on the floor with them, mirroring their posture.

He laughs to himself. “I… I’ll be honest, when I said that, I wasn’t actually expecting you to go through with it.”

“But we did,” Michael chirps, leaning forward with his chin propped in his hands.

“Yeah.” The word comes out breathy, like he’s  _ still _ having a bit of trouble believing it. “So, uh… ask away, I guess. What do you want to know?”

* * *

Getting away from Julia and Trevor with the pages still folded up in the inner pocket of Jon’s jacket is more terrifying than it is actually  _ difficult. _ They don’t seem to suspect a thing. …Of course, they are  _ hunters. _ Maybe they’re just waiting for them to get far enough away that catching them again will be worth the chase.

Whether or not that’s the case, they make it back to London and the Magnus Institute without any further trouble. Elias even sends Daisy as an escort, just in case. They decide it’s best if Gerry stays out of sight for this, hidden back in his pages, as she seems annoyed enough at having to play chauffeur without adding in  _ that _ whole explanation. Gerry doesn’t mind. He’s not too keen on meeting another hunter at the moment, either.

There’s a lot of introducing and explaining to do when they’re back, and Michael is no help at all, as Jon is still the only member of the archival staff he’s warmed up to. In comparison, Gerry has  _ much _ less trouble integrating into the group dynamic, such as it is. When he manifests himself in the Institute, he’s all business, none of the honesty he showed when Jon and Michael first talked to him. He’s here to help stop the Unknowing, not to make friends. Elias doesn’t bother hiding that he approves- probably wishes all his employees could be like that, none of this messy emotional business or having lives and desires outside of what he wants from them. In return, Gerry doesn’t bother hiding that he can’t stand the man, and only intends to put up with him for as long as it takes to keep the world from ending. In private, he makes Jon and Michael promise to ensure Elias does  _ not _ get his hands on his pages.

And in  _ private, _ it’s all a very different story. He sprawls himself over a chair in Jon’s office in every conceivable way except the one it was meant to be used, full of dark humor and teasing, and he laughs genuinely when they joke back. It couldn’t be any more obvious that Serious Gerry is a mask, and one that exhausts him to constantly wear. He never wanted this life to begin with, and even  _ dying _ didn’t get him away from it, and he can’t have feelings in front of people unless he trusts them not to use it against him later.

When he explains this, in response to Michael asking about the stark difference in his personality when they’re alone, it causes a brief silence. Just as he’s regretting bringing the mood down, Jon breaks it.

“Thank you.”

“…What?”

He smiles. “For trusting us.”

“Oh. I- yeah.” Gerry smiles back. “…Of course.”

* * *

The Unknowing approaches. No one is doing particularly well under all the stress, and while it’s hitting Jon especially hard, he can see it’s taking a toll on everyone else as well. Michael, for one, responds by becoming incredibly clingy, giving sharp, suspicious looks to anyone who comes too close to  _ his people. _ Jon and Gerry aren’t allowed out of his sight for more than ten minutes at a time before he starts to worry- so at least there’s  _ one _ upside to the fact that none of the three of them actually have anywhere else to go home to at night. There’s a jumble of blankets and cushions and air mattresses in an unused corner of the archives, and they spend the night there when Jon and Gerry actually remember to stop working and at least  _ pretend _ they’re normal people who still do things like sleeping, always within arm’s reach of each other. Gerry tends to disappear at some point during the night- maintaining a physical body takes concentration, and it’s hard to concentrate while asleep- but that’s fine, as long as he always comes back in the morning.

Finally, the time comes. Elias calls everyone into his office, or at least everyone he  _ can; _ Tim hasn’t actually been seen by anyone other than Jon in weeks, Melanie sees no reason to join in the preparations if she’s not going to  _ be _ there for the ritual, and Michael refuses to answer the summons of someone he doesn’t even work for anymore. He’d rather hear it secondhand later than have to stand there and listen to Elias’s insufferable, smug voice.

The tape Elias plays for them is… well, it’s not as if the thought of the Unknowing wasn’t  _ scary _ enough to begin with, but hearing this account makes it that much more real and immediate, somehow. Jon tries not to be too outwardly shaken. They knew it was dangerous all along,  _ he _ knew all along he might not come back, but… He looks around the room, at the faces of everyone else going with him. He doesn’t want to lose them, and he  _ really _ doesn’t want to lose himself in the ritual to the point of no longer knowing who they are.

Well. At least  _ one _ of them will be safe… for a certain definition of the word. Elias doesn’t seem to suspect anything when he suggests Martin ought to stay behind, and Jon can’t deny he’s  _ very _ good at faking indignation. He was, he supposes, lying about his  _ qualifications _ for quite a long time, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised.

And then Elias has something else to say. “Jon… Technically, I can’t  _ stop _ you, but I would highly advise against bringing any… rogue elements.”

“You  _ can _ just say Tim,” Martin says, but Elias holds up a hand, quieting him before he’s fully finished and stopping Jon from responding just yet.

“Tim is… unpredictable right now, that’s true,” he allows, “but I was also referring to your latest pet project, Jon.”

Jon is defensive before he’s entirely sure what Elias is talking about. “My…?”

“Michael,” he says bluntly. “I know you’ve gotten rather…  _ invested _ in helping him adjust to being free of the Spiral, but you should remember what kind of  _ thing _ he’s most accustomed to being before placing your trust in him, especially in such a critical situation.”

Gerry is quietly seething next to him; Jon touches his arm discreetly and feels him try to relax again. “I will take it under advisement,” he says dryly, broadcasting his intention to do no such thing.

Elias raises an eyebrow. “If that isn’t enough to convince you, I might remind you that,  _ having _ so recently left the Spiral, he could be much more susceptible to the tricks of perception employed by the Stranger. If you insist on bringing him along, I guarantee, he’ll be in more danger than anyone else.”

“In that case,” says Jon tightly, “I’ll talk to  _ him _ about it.”

Elias nods, gives a disinterested little “hm” and continues on with the meeting. Jon doesn’t quite remember to move his hand away from Gerry’s arm, absently brushing his fingers over the papery skin.

Later, Jon talks to Tim. He’s easily swayed in favor of letting him come, regardless of what Elias thinks, especially knowing how important this is to him. Even later than that, Jon talks to Michael, and… isn’t.

“You’re not… no.” Michael laughs incredulously when he hears what Elias said. “You’re not leaving me  _ behind, _ by myself, while you… You’re not seriously  _ listening _ to him?”

Jon sighs, pushes his glasses up to rub at his face. “I’m sorry, but- I think he’s right. It’s… there’s too much of a risk, for you, and I don’t… I’m sorry, Michael, I can’t let you do this.”

He exhales harshly and just stares for a moment, eyes wide with betrayed shock, before settling into anger. “I’m afraid I don’t quite  _ understand, _ Archivist.  _ Let _ me? I thought we were both in agreement that I don’t  _ work _ for you. Why should I need your permission?”

“Michael,” Gerry starts, trying to calm him down and maybe assure him Jon didn’t mean it like that, but he doesn’t listen.

“No, don’t interrupt, I want to hear what the  _ Archivist _ has to say.”

Gerry nods and leans back, arms folded, looking at Jon:  _ You fucked this up, you fix it. _

Jon doesn’t know how to fix it, because- well, he said what he meant, even if there’s no way he could  _ actually _ stop Michael finding alternate transportation and meeting them at the House of Wax. Anything he  _ can _ do to keep him here, he will, and he knows that’s not really his place and it’s not as if he has any good,  _ logical _ excuse for it, it’s just-

“I- I don’t want you  _ hurt,” _ is what finally comes out, louder than he intends and almost desperate. “Just… Please, Michael. It’s not just you, Melanie and Martin are staying back, remember? We don’t want, uh, too many people there.”

Michael deflates slowly. It’s not like he has a  _ good _ argument against staying behind, he just… he doesn’t  _ like _ it. “You’re right,” he mutters. “At least I can help… keep them company, I guess.” Then he has a thought and smiles, just a little. “Maybe I’ll give Elias a headache while I’m at it.”

Jon bites his lip. He can’t voice what  _ he _ doesn’t like about  _ that, _ not here, anyway. Even if it’s going to have to be  _ someone. _ “Don’t… do anything stupid,” he settles on.

He gasps, faux-offended and thankfully brightening up again, closer to his usual self.  _ “Jon! _ When have I ever?”

Gerry smirks and nudges him- he’s honestly just glad they’re not fighting. “D’you want the list alphabetical, or most recent first?”

“Those are  _ awfully _ bold words, coming from someone who lives in a stack of papers with every stupid thing he’s ever done in his life written on them.”

Gerry nudges him slightly harder, still smiling. “Shut up.”

Jon clears his throat sheepishly. “Entertaining as this is… there are still a few more preparations to be made, before we go.” He swallows the guilt, watching stress settle on their faces again, but- he’ll take feeling like a jerk now over  _ not _ being prepared, when the time comes.

“Right.”

Michael looks away. “I… I’d probably just distract you, so… I’ll see you two again later?”

Jon swallows. “Yeah. It, it shouldn’t take too long. We’ll see you soon.”

* * *

“Later” isn’t actually as soon as he wants it to be, but it does eventually come. By now, they’re all exhausted with worrying, if not from the actual work of getting ready, and when they meet up again it’s in the sleep-nest in the corner of the archives. The group tasked with stopping the Unknowing leaves tomorrow… and it’s not likely anyone is going to sleep well right before  _ that, _ Rosie’s bed-and-breakfast arrangements notwithstanding, so they ought to get some rest while they can.

And they probably ought  _ not _ to be whispering back and forth like twelve-year-old girls at a sleepover for half the night, but it is what it is.

“…I still don’t like it,” Michael says quietly. “You’re going to be in danger, and I… if anything goes wrong, I won’t even  _ know _ until it’s all over.”

“I’ll bring him back safe for you,” Gerry promises. “Won’t let him out of my sight if I can help it- you know the kind of shit he gets into unsupervised.”

They both ignore Jon’s soft, indignant protest.

“And it’s not like anything can hurt  _ me.” _ He taps the sturdy little metal box his pages are currently tucked away in, the most explosion-proof thing anyone had been able to find. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

“Have you  _ met _ me,” Michael sighs. “I’m  _ going _ to worry. I know it doesn’t do anyone any good at this point, and I shouldn’t make it worse for myself.” He glances at Jon, mentally voted most likely to consider that a good argument with which to calm someone down. “But it’s just… it’s  _ hard _ to be rational about- anything, actually, if you’re me,” he jokes self-consciously, “but especially when it comes to- people you love.”

Jon and Gerry go quiet and stare at him. Michael stares resolutely at the ceiling and doesn’t move- he might not even be  _ breathing. _ The only sign that he isn’t a statue is the color creeping into his face.

After a long few seconds, he exhales a weak laugh. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

More silence.

He takes another, shaky breath. “Fuck it, you know? I might never see you again and, and you might as well know… Yeah, I’m in love with you. And I don’t want you to go get  _ killed _ by  _ evil clowns. _ …And if anyone else would like to say anything, at all, so I know you don’t hate me now, that would be  _ great-” _

“Michael…” Jon exhales the name and pushes himself up on one elbow for a better look at his nervous face, framed by the mess of hair scattered around his head on the pillow. He gets a better view when Michael turns to face him, hopeful. Unfortunately, this also robs him of the capacity to arrange words into a sentence well enough to say anything back, and for a moment, they just look at each other.

What breaks the moment, in the end, is a rustling from Michael’s other side, and they both look over to see Gerry getting up to leave. Michael’s face drops immediately, although he tries not to let it.

Realizing he’s drawn their attention, Gerry makes a face that can’t be called a smile, but doesn’t qualify as any  _ other _ expression, either. “Sorry- looked like you two are… having a moment there, love confessions and all, don’t want to be in the way, so… I’ll leave you to it.” He tries to finish making his horribly awkward exit, while appearing not to notice exactly  _ how _ they’re looking at him, sad and increasingly confused as he keeps talking. Michael doesn’t let him get more than a tiny step away before he latches on to his ankle, which happens to be the first way he could think of to stop him going any further.

“You could’ve just said  _ wait, _ you know.” He hasn’t sat back down yet, so Michael tugs at him until he does. He still looks guarded. "What?"

"I wasn't," Michael says, "only talking to Jon."

“…Oh.” Still, he doesn’t quite settle- looks over at Jon, as if seeking permission for this to be happening.

They’re all sitting up now, and Jon reaches in his direction, not quite confident enough to actually make contact. “Don’t leave. Please. Let’s- let’s… talk about this. I… for my part. I can’t say I’ve actually  _ thought _ about it, it’s not really something I usually… but if both of you- want this- then… so do I.”

From Michael: “I hope you don’t need any more explanation from  _ me. _ I already said it, I’m in love with you.” This time, he’s careful to make eye contact with both of them, deliberately enough that it’s almost a joke. Not quite, though- really, he just wants to keep saying it, as many times as he can get away with before it’s too obvious that he’s trying.

So now they’re only waiting on a response from Gerry. For a while, he can’t find any words, just sits there not quite looking at either of them and gradually turning flushed the longer he’s put on the spot. Jon finally  _ does _ reach out and touch his arm, trying to be supportive. It does not exactly help him to be any less flustered.

“Um,” he tries, and doesn’t get any further than that before his mind goes blank again.

Michael isn’t feeling very patient right now and ends up prompting, “So are you… interested, or-”

He doesn’t get to finish the question. Words having failed, Gerry goes straight to kissing him in lieu of a verbal answer. It’s not the hesitant thing his reticence might have implied, either- if anything, he’s a little  _ too _ intense about it, fueled by frustration at his own inability to say anything coherent. Michael, who wasn’t expecting to have to brace himself for that, finds himself sprawled on his back again when they break apart.

A grin slowly spreads across his face. “…Shall I take that as a yes?”

_ “Obviously,” _ Gerry huffs, and leans down to kiss him again as punctuation.

Jon gives them their moment- actually, he’s watching them entirely too fondly, and needs a moment himself to reign in his sappy expression- and then coughs to remind them he’s still right here.

“Oh! Sorry-”

“You feeling left out?”

He leans back slightly, holding up his hands, before he can get unceremoniously dragged in like Michael. “No- no, I don’t really- that is, maybe just…?”

He indicates the  _ rest _ of his face almost shyly, and Gerry kisses his cheek. “No makeouts for you, got it.” Jon doesn’t tend to blush all that noticeably, but he can feel his face heating up regardless.

“Thanks.”

A beat passes and then, “You are  _ ignoring _ me,” Michael calls petulantly from the floor. “Come down here.” 

He tugs at them until they obey, not that either of them is resisting. After some shifting, he’s got Jon curled up with his head on his shoulder and Gerry’s face within easy reach, while all their limbs tangle together underneath a mess of blankets. It’s very nearly perfect, save for the still-imminent possibility that everything will go completely, horribly wrong.

“Do you  _ have _ to go,” Michael whispers into the quiet.

“We do.” Jon squeezes him a little where his arm is wrapped around his waist. “I’m sorry, but… there’s no real other choice.”

“Promise… promise me you’ll come back safe. Both of you.”

They can’t promise that, of course. Michael knows it as well as they do, but he’s selfish, sometimes, and he asks anyway.

Much more confidently than he feels, Gerry chimes in, “We will.”

Jon raises his head and kisses Michael’s jaw. “Promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> ask me about the entire season 4 equivalent i planned out in my head for this au despite knowing i would have to stop here in order to be finished by the exchange deadline :)
> 
> (edit: see reply to first comment for that explanation!)


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